No Timeouts

Bobby Kehan stands quietly on the concrete platform, watching the Metro North train disappear into the dense thicket of trees along the Bronx River as the November sun sets over the wooded landscape. He looks around and takes in his surroundings, resting his gaze up the hill to the west. Toward Woodlawn, maybe the only still-Irish-to-the-core neighborhood left in all of New York City and its five boroughs. Just twenty miles from the bustling chaos of Times Square. To enter a different world. Where folks can escape their past without leaving their own people and culture; assimilate without assimilating; get lost. Hide.

Bobby steps off the train platform and begins his ascent.

He pulls his Yankees cap lower on his head, and the lapels of his black wool overcoat tighter around his neck, as a cold wind gusts down the hill, swirling around him like a ghost. Maybe it’s Mother Nature blowin’ me back to Manhattan for my own safety, he muses; or, then again, maybe it’s just the wind. He walks west up 233^rd Street past rows of small two-story brick houses, each separated by ten feet of driveway, their facades worn but proud. Many of them display the Irish Tricolour hanging on the opposite end of the porch from Old Glory. Reminds him of home. But back home the Union Jack isn’t sharing a porch with any other flag, especially the ole Trídhathach.

Bobby glances across the street at Woodlawn Cemetery, which looms like a silent guardian over the North Bronx neighborhood; a resting place for hundreds of thousands, including luminaries like Herman Melville, Irving Berlin and Duke Ellington. And a whole lot of others, most of whom nobody remembers; they did nothing special, just lived then died. Some died old, some died young, some died naturally, some died tragically. Maybe some even died heroically. But no matter how they got there, they all wound up in the same dirt – indifferent to their lives.

Bobby continues up the hill, his feet echoing softly on the cracked sidewalk. Nearly identical brick houses flank him on either side. Each home, modest in size and structure, displays its own unique decoration, its own little twist, so maybe it can stand out from the crowd, distinguish itself.

An old man with pale wrinkled skin and rosy cheeks walks onto his porch carrying a small green sprinkling can to water his plants. He nods with a friendly smile as Bobby walks past. “G’day,” he says, raising his hand to his forehead in a mock tip of the cap. “Hopefully those Yankees don’t let us down again next year.” Shaking his head, he adds, “At least they finally got ridda Showalter.”

Bobby smiles back with a polite nod. “We can only hope,” he says and keeps walking. Approaching Katonah Avenue, he passes a dark green wooden sign with ornamental gold lettering. “Welcome to Woodlawn Heights, Established 1874.” They’ve been comin’ in from Ireland and movin’ up here to the Bronx for over a hundred years, Bobby thinks. Lookin’ for a better life, maybe lookin’ to escape somethin’ back home, fortified by their own kin and countrymen. Sanctuary.

Walking along Katonah, Bobby passes an Irish grocery and butcher shop, each with a few smiling customers ambling about inside, then a small storefront shaded by a bright yellow awning with “Sean’s Quality Deli, All Things Good and Irish” printed in green script framed by matching shamrocks across its scalloped hem. Half a block up at the next corner, Bobby sees what he’s looking for: Finnegan’s Pub. A Woodlawn fixture for nearly twenty years, opened back in 1976 by an Irish immigrant named John Finnegan. With old John now pushing seventy, the pub is run by his son Tommy, who’s worked there since it opened when he was sixteen.

Bobby knows all this and much more. He’s done his research.

Each of the dozen or so big-screen TVs inside Finnegan’s is showing the Giants-Eagles football game, a longstanding NFL division rivalry. Inside the crowded bar, the atmosphere is electric and a spirited banter fills the air. Every eye in the house is glued to a TV screen, with many of the customers wearing Giants jerseys or hats. The game is in the middle of the second quarter with the Eagles up 13-10.

Bobby weaves his way through the throng, finally spotting an empty stool wedged between two heavyset middle-aged men sitting toward the end of the jam-packed bar. Both men root for the Giants; one wears a knit wool Giants hat and the other wears a blue Giants jersey. As Bobby settles onto the stool, hat guy glances over and notices Bobby’s Yankees cap. “Wrong sport, fella – you’re about a month too late for the Yankees!” he says.

Bobby chuckles, his warm voice laced with a pleasant brogue. “Just got in from the Big Island, so maybe I’m a bit confused about what season ’tis here in the States.”

“Well, it’s always an honor to have a guest from the Emerald Isle,” hat guy says, giving Bobby a friendly pat on the back. He looks down to the center of the bar where a barmaid pours an amber-colored draft beer from the row of taps. “Heya, Molly!” he yells over the crowd noise. “Get this weary traveler a pint a’ Guinness ’n a shot a’ Jamo on my tab!”

Keeping her focus on the pour, Molly replies in a thick brogue. “Comin’ right up, Scotty. But ya better have cash ’cuz Tommy ain’t takin’ your card no more!”

“No worries, Mol. I’ll have plenty a’ cash after the G-Men win this one. Just watch, they’ll come alive in the second half after Coach Reeves rips ’em a new one at halftime.”

“Oh, you’ll have the cash either way, Scotty – even if Big Pete has to drag your drunken ass to the ATM again!”

After serving a few thirsty customers, Molly approaches Bobby with his beer and shot. “Here y’are, kind sir,” she says with a smile. “Don’t let Scotty get ya too drunk tonight, he may get a touch randy with a handsome fella like you!”

Scotty bursts into laughter, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I’m his type.” Bobby laughs as he raises his shot glass to Scotty. “Thank ya, m’good man,” he says and tosses back the shot.

Bobby takes a sip from his pint while the bar crowd erupts in cheers after a long Giants run pushes them deep into Eagles territory. When Molly turns around to grab a liquor bottle from the shelf behind the bar, Bobby studies her closely through the reflection in the wall-length mirror. Still a looker after twenty years, he thinks. Besides a few subtle wrinkles, she hasn’t changed a bit.

Except her name wasn’t Molly back then.

Everything comes so easy and natural to him, Bobby thinks as he watches his older brother Denny tear through the opposing defense during the Saturday morning football match at Woodvale Park off the end of the Shankill Road, sidestepping a defender with the grace of a gazelle. It’d always been this way for Denny. He was the most popular lad in school, a top youth footballer in West Belfast, and drew girls like a magnet with his good looks, easy charm and magnetic smile. And, of course, he was their parents’ pride and joy. Their golden boy. Now back home after a two-year stint as a bomb tech with the Royal Irish Rangers, Denny still has that vibrant boyish spirit, now sharpened by an edge of experience that makes him even more formidable.

And Bobby? “Well,” as Francis Kehan would say to anyone who asked about his younger son, “he ain’t Denny but—”

All Bobby heard was the “but” – never what came next. Because it didn’t matter. Like his dad said, he wasn’t Denny and never would be. Shy and bookish, Bobby was a stellar student adored by his teachers, but that didn’t fit well in the alpha-dog Kehan household.

When the match is over, Denny jogs over to the sideline and greets Bobby with a playful punch to the shoulder. “Gotta play with us one a’ these mornings, boyo. Great way to kill that Friday night hangover.” Dipping his hand into a large cooler set down on the worn grass, Denny pulls out two cans of Harp and tosses one to Bobby. “Hair a’ the dog!” he says with a smile as he cracks open his can.

Denny finishes off his beer with a healthy belch, then says to Bobby, “Gotta meet up with Brian and one a’ his lads over in the Queen’s Quarter later this afternoon, but we’re gonna hit up some pubs in the City Centre tonight. Get your nose outta the books and come join us for a few pints. There’ll be plenty a’ birdies flyin’ around. ’Bout time ya met a nice girl.” After some good-natured cajoling, Bobby agrees to meet up with Denny and his crew later that night.

Belfast has been a war zone the past few years, a city riddled with tension and violence, plagued by riots and bombings. Ulster loyalists versus Irish republicans, Unionists versus Nationalists, Protestants versus Catholics, UVF versus IRA. All consumed by terror. Streets lined with British tanks and soldiers, hovering like a dark storm cloud over the city. Catholic and Protestant families alike, who’ve lived here for generations upon generations, leavin’ every day now it seems. Can’t blame ’em – every time they leave the house, they don’t know if they’ll be comin’ home with their arms and legs still attached. Just a matter a’ chance. It’s no way to live, at least not for those who have a choice.

Even with the chaos, Bobby’s always felt safe with Denny at his side. But maybe Bobby’s not the one who needs protectin’.

“I know y’aint local, so where is it you’re from, dathúil?”

Bobby glances over from the TV, where the game has now reached a fever pitch with the score tied 20-20 at the end of the third quarter. Molly sets a fresh pint of Guinness on his coaster and asks again, “So where ya from?”

“Armagh,” Bobby says. “Family moved up north when I was a wee bit of a lad.”

“Aye,” Molly says, studying him carefully. “And what brings y’over to the lovely Bronx?”

“Just dropped my daughter off at Fordham,” Bobby says. “She’s startin’ her first year, wanted to come to the States for university. Me and her mum wanted her to go to Trinity back in Dublin – a couple hours from home but still far enough to be on her own – but no, she was hell-bent on comin’ to New York. She’s got a good head about her so I’m not worried.” He smiles softly.

Molly nods while she wipes down the bar.

“An’ how ’bout yourself?” Bobby asks. “From whereabouts does Miss Molly hail?”

“Kilkenny, born and raised. Moved to the States about twenty years ago. Lots of us over here as I’m sure you can see. Sometimes it feels like I never left home.”

“I can see that.” Bobby raises his fresh pint to Molly. “Cheers to ya, m’good lady.”

Molly smiles at him, then looks up at the TV. “Looks like a nail-biter. So long as you’re rootin’ for the Giants, just gimme a holler when ya need another.” With that, Molly walks away to fill more empty glasses.

Kilkenny my ass, Bobby smirks. The lyin’ bitch had never been south a’ the Lower Falls Road before they dashed her off to Belfast International in the middle a’ the night an’ put her on a plane to JFK.

Bobby reaches down to make sure his .38 snub-nose is secure in its ankle holster.

“Another round a’ Guinness with shots a’ Bushmills for the troops!” Denny shouts down the crowded bar at Mooney’s in Arthur Square as Thin Lizzie’s “Whiskey in the Jar” blasts from the corner jukebox. The popular pub is teeming with a lively mix of locals and visitors alike, all buoyed in high spirits and well on their way to drunken good cheer. And plenty of single women scattered about, some alone and others in groups – Mooney’s being a well-known pickup joint in the heart of Belfast City Centre.

“Here y’are, fellas!” Denny screams over the loud music and crowd noise, his face breaking into a wide grin as he hands a round of pints and shots to his crew. Tonight, this group includes his younger brother Bobby. At just nineteen and a student at Queen’s University, Bobby is three to four years younger than the others – John Murphy, John’s younger brother Lenny, and William Moore, who works with Denny at Woodvale Meats on the Shankill Road.

Bobby likes Willie Moore, a good-natured chap who doesn’t say much but is well-liked and respected by the others. The Murphy brothers, however, paint a stark contrast. Though younger than John, Lenny is the clear leader of the two. Released a year ago from a two-year stint at Crumlin Road Jail, and still just twenty-two, Lenny’s already a UVF officer notorious in West Belfast for a degree of violence and brutality that’s extreme even by Ulster paramilitary standards. His toothy uneven grin and wild psychotic eyes are terrifying even to those who know him well – especially after a night of boozing and snorting coke, a regular affair for the Murphys. Unlike Moore, who goes out of his way to include Bobby, the Murphy brothers treat Bobby with indifference, only tolerating his presence out of their respect for his older brother.

When Denny rushes off to greet a few friends he spots across the bar, Bobby overhears Lenny ask his brother John, “Why’d Kehan have to bring the college boy out tonight? Lad’s a fuckin’ wanker.” His words slice through the air like a knife, making Bobby feel small and exposed.

Shortly before midnight, after Denny returns and buys another round for the crew, Lenny turns to him and William. “Pub’s gettin’ too packed for me an’ Johnny, we’re headin’ back to the Shankill. We’ll be at the Lawnbrook or Brown Bear if you two muckers wanna join us later.” John chimes in, shifting his eyes down the bar. “If, that is, you lads aren’t occupied with those two birds down the bar that’ve been sizin’ up Denny-boy like a Christmas ham!”

The others follow John’s gaze to see two young women in their early twenties holding cocktail glasses, engaged in animated conversation while stealing occasional glances at the men. One a brunette, the other a blonde, both are very attractive and relishing the attention from the young men. The brunette flashes a quick smile at Denny before she turns back to her friend, who leans in closer, a smile of her own dancing on her lips as the brunette whispers something to her.

“They look like a couple a’ fuckin’ taigs to me,” Lenny says, eyes narrowing as he studies the women closely. “You lads best be careful; Provos’ve been settin’ their honeytraps all over the City Centre lately.”

“Stop your worryin’, Len,” Denny says dismissively. “I’m here all the time. Only Proddies in this pub. An’ the honeytrappin’ stopped two years ago.”

“I’m just tellin’ ya to be careful,” Lenny says, his voice low and serious as he grabs John by the arm to leave. For the first time that night, he turns to acknowledge Bobby. “If ya wanna make yourself useful tonight, college boy, then watch out for your brother and Willie here while we head back to the Shankill.”

Standing next to Lenny, John nods in agreement. “Maybe not as many girls over there, but at least we don’t need to worry about gettin’ shot if we leave the pub with ’em.”

After the Murphy brothers leave, Denny leans in close to say something to William over the crowd noise. William nods with a grin and casts a sly look over at the two women, who are now giving him and Denny their full attention, watching them expectantly. Denny and William walk over toward the women and wave for Bobby to follow.

With Denny’s irresistible charm and the affable William as his wingman, the girls are soon glowing with smiles and laughter. The brunette, Gracie, glances over at Bobby from time to time with a flirtatious smile. Finally, she waves him over to join them. “C’mon over, little brother, we don’t wanna leave out the best-lookin’ lad in the pub.”

Bobby blushes, then moves his stool next to hers, feeling the heat of her gaze.

Gracie studies him closely, then raises the back of her hand to her forehead, pretending to swoon. “Will ya look at those eyes, Mo?” she exclaims. “They’re green as Connemara marble!” Her friend, Maureen, perched on the stool next to her, nods quickly while fanning herself with both hands. “Good lord, whatcha doin’ over there by your lonesome, Bobby? Those Queen’s girls must be faintin’ over ya.”

Denny chimes in. “I tell ’im the same all the time, ladies. But our Bobby’s a shy one; with his nose always buried in a book, he don’t even notice the girls starin’ at ’im.”

William leans over with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, at least one of the Kehan brothers is livin’ the straight life while the other one’s out trollin’ the pubs every night.”

Denny turns to William with a mock scowl and gentle slug to the arm. “Hey now, Willie, we don’t want these lovely young lasses thinkin’ I’m—”

Before Denny can finish, Gracie hops off her stool, grabs his hand and pulls him out toward the crowded dance floor where couples sway to “Killer Queen” booming from the jukebox. With Denny in tow, she glances back at Maureen and William. “C’mon, you two, let’s go dance!” William looks at Maureen with a shrug, then extends his hand to her. “Well, I guess we’ve got no choice now, do we?” Maureen accepts his hand with a laugh. “We most certainly do not, sir. Ya never say no to Gracie!” The two of them follow Gracie and Denny out to the dance floor, leaving Bobby alone at the bar.

Feeling awkward and self-conscious by himself, Bobby dips his head and takes a long sip from his pint. He watches the two couples dance, lost in their own world. Then his gaze drifts slowly around the bar, finally resting on the burly red-headed bartender who’s been serving them all night. The bartender wipes out the inside of a pint glass, staring intently at the same two jubilant couples on the dance floor; there’s no cheer or humor in his eyes as he watches them closely, subtly shaking his head. He turns and walks down the bar toward Bobby. His eyes, dead serious, are fixed directly on Bobby. But before he can reach Bobby, the other bartender grabs him by the arm, diverting his attention to a task on the other side of the bar.

A few minutes later, feeling uncomfortable and out of place, Bobby stands up and leaves the pub without telling his brother or William. As he steps out into the cool night air, he doesn’t think twice about the bartender’s odd behavior and unmistakable intent to speak to him. At least not until the next day.

And then he’ll never forget.

With under five minutes left in the fourth quarter, the Giants up 27-23, the Eagles connect on a long pass deep into Giants territory, giving them a first and goal at the 8-yard line. The Finnegan’s crowd grows frustrated as the Giants call their final timeout. “C’mon G-Men, play some fuckin’ defense!” Scotty screams at the TV, his voice rising above the din, while the Giants jersey guy shakes his head in dismay and signals to Molly for another beer.

Bobby sits silently, watching the crowd with amusement; the raucous energy reminds him of a rivalry football (soccer, as they call it here) or rugby match back home. The fans go wild, finding an escape from their otherwise mundane lives, growing animated, vibrant and utterly consumed by the game. The power of sport and competition is truly transcendent, he thinks.

Bobby glances up when Molly places another pint of Guinness in front of him. “This one’s on Tommy, the manager. He likes to host you folks from the old country. His way a’ sayin’ welcome to our little slice a’ Ireland here in the North Bronx.”

Bobby nods appreciatively and raises his glass to Tommy, who stands at the end of the bar. Tommy meets Bobby’s gaze, cracks a smile and flashes a thumbs-up sign. Sitting on a stool next to Tommy is his father, the owner of the pub – old John Finnegan himself – brandishing a glass of whiskey. John glances at Bobby and holds his eyes for a moment, then nods and raises his glass as a slight smile forms on his lips.

Bobby returns the gesture but doesn’t smile. Drink up old man, he thinks to himself.

“So d’ya got an ‘other’ back home in Ireland?” Molly asks him.

The bar crowd groans as the Eagles score a touchdown; after the extra point, the Eagles take the lead 30-27 with four minutes left on the clock.

“Divorced about five years now, so it’s just me and my daughter Aileen. And now she’s moved here to the States, leavin’ dear ole dad for the riches of America.”

“All by your lonesome then?”

“I’m a tough one to live with I’ve been told, so prob’ly for the best.”

“Well, now that Aileen is livin’ down the road at Fordham, tell her to stop by the bar any time and we’ll take good care a’ her. We’re all family here.”

Now that’s the last fuckin’ thing I’d ever do, Bobby thinks to himself as he raises the fresh pint to his lips. He takes a long pull to stifle his scowl.

Suddenly, a cheer erupts from the bar crowd as the Giants return the Eagles’ kickoff thirty yards to their own 40-yard line. Tommy belts out a loud “Let’s Go, Giants!” chant that spreads through the bar like an electric current.

Molly winces from the sharp noise, putting her hands to her ears until the cheer subsides. “Now ya see what I gotta deal with every Sunday four months a year. All good fun though.”

Bobby nods. “So what about you then? What’s your story, Miss Molly?”

“Oh, it’s a long one that’d keep ya here all night,” Molly laughs. “But whattaya wanna know? I’m an open book.” She raises her eyebrows and leans forward on the bar.

“I dunno,” Bobby says. “Tell me somethin’ about yourself that nobody else in the pub knows, not even your regulars.”

“Well, I’m not great at keepin’ secrets. Pretty much what ya see is what ya get around here. But I do have one deep secret I don’t want these barflies knowin’ about.”

“Aye? Do tell, m’dear.”

Molly lowers her voice conspiratorially, then leans in further. “Sometimes I sing to myself in the shower. My favorite is ‘Fairytale of New York’ by The Pogues.”

Bobby laughs. “Excellent choice!” he says with a grin. “Lemme know if y’ever need a duet partner; I could be the Shane to your Kirsty!”

“Now that’s a deal,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “I’ll make it worth your hop back across the pond.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Bobby lifts his glass and takes a pull.

“An’ I almost forgot.” Molly leans in so close to Bobby that their faces are just inches apart. Her smile disappears and her eyes lose their cheer. “I got one more dirty little secret.”

Bobby sets down his pint, curiosity piqued. “An’ what’s that?”

Molly looks him dead in the eye. “I never forget a face. Even when it’s hidden behind a beard and colored contacts. Especially one as pretty as yours, Bobby Kehan.”

Before Bobby can react, Scotty places a hand on his knee from the next stool. “Don’t breathe a word or move an inch, fella,” he warns quietly. “We got two guns on ya and men who know how to use ’em. Just sit tight and I’ll tell ya exactly what to do next. And ya won’t do a fuckin’ thing unless I tell ya to.”

Bobby, heart racing, pivots away from Scotty, only to come face to face with the Giants jersey guy, who’s pulled his attention away from the TV, a fierce look in his eye. “Don’t even think about it, mate,” he growls, pressing a small Beretta pistol into Bobby’s stomach. “Unless ya want your guts splattered all over the fuckin’ bar.” Keeping his gun trained on Bobby, he reaches down and removes the .38 from Bobby’s ankle holster.

Bobby takes a deep breath, then turns back to Molly and rests his elbows on the bar. He glares at her with smoldering intensity.

Molly shakes her head with a touch of sympathy. “Shoulda stayed in Belfast, Bobby. But somehow I knew ya’d show up here eventually.”

Bobby is jolted awake in his cold, drafty bedroom by his father Francis shaking him violently by a fistful of nightshirt. Bobby’s mother Abby stands behind her husband, weeping hysterically, her face streaked with tears. Next to her is Lenny Murphy, staring directly at Bobby with eyes so cold they could freeze the pipes that run through the walls.

“What the hell happened? Why’d ya’ leave Denny last night?” Francis’s voice is a thunderclap, cutting through the fog of Bobby’s confusion as he slaps Bobby across the face, snapping him fully awake. “Who was he with? Where the hell’d ya go?” Francis shakes him harder while Abby’s wails intensify. She falls back against the bedroom wall and slides to the floor, her loud sobs amplifying the chaos in the room.

Bobby’s heart races as he looks around wildly. “I-I-I don’t know wha—what happened?”

Lenny steps forward and brushes Francis aside. He kneels by the bed and faces Bobby, his eyes fierce. “It was a fuckin’ honeytrap,” Lenny says, his voice low but steady. “I knew those two were bead-rattlers, an’ I told ya to look out for Denny and Will. Denny don’t think straight around the ladies, especially lookers like those two. An’ Will’s a sheep who’ll follow Denny wherever he goes.” Lenny pauses and takes a deep breath. “We already know from the bartender that they left Mooney’s with the two girls about 2 a.m. Did ya get their names? Not that it matters since they prob’ly used fake ones. Or maybe they said somethin’ about where they were goin’ next?”

Bobby’s mind races, trying to piece together fragments of the prior night. “Gracie was one of ’em – the darker-haired one – and the blonde one was Mo I think, short for Maura or Maureen. They all just went out to dance, an’ then I left. They said nothin’ about after that, but what the—”

Before Bobby can finish, Abby leaps onto the bed, screaming and clawing at his face in a frenzy. Raising his hands to defend himself, Bobby can only make out one thing she shouts through her uncontrolled rage: “—killed him, killed my Dennyyyyyy!!!”

Francis and Lenny scramble forward and pull Abby off the bed, then Francis carries her out of the room. Her cries fade into the hallway as Bobby jumps out of bed, staring at Lenny with wide frightened eyes. “Wha-wha-what the—”

Lenny grips Bobby by the shoulders and looks him straight in the eye. “Denny’s dead. Willie too. Bodies found early this mornin’ in an alley off a’ St. Galls by some old man takin’ out the trash. They did nothin’ to hide the bodies. Provos wanted us to know it was them.”

“But why Denny? He wasn’t mixed up in any a’ that; he never—” Bobby’s voice falters and he stops short, narrowing his eyes at Lenny as a dawning realization creeps in. “An’ why’re you here, what’s this gotta—”

Lenny shakes his head and tightens his grip on Bobby’s shoulders. “Best ya leave, Bobby. Not good for ya here anymore.”

Just then, Francis re-enters the room, tears streaming down his cheeks – an image that will forever haunt Bobby, who’s never seen his father so vulnerable. Francis wipes his eyes with his shirt sleeve, composes himself, then fixes Bobby with a stone-cold stare. “Lenny’s right. Just leave. Be gone by this evenin’.”

Bobby’s mouth drops open. But before he can muster a word, Francis cuts him off – with the last words Bobby’ll ever hear from his father; words he’ll never forget:

“Get out. You’re not fuckin’ wanted here no more.”

Surrounded by barrel-shaped kegs and cardboard cases of beer in the cold basement of Finnegan’s, Bobby can’t stop his teeth from chattering. The chill of the damp concrete walls seeps into his bones. Big Pete O’Shea, Finnegan’s bouncer, uses a thick nylon rope to bind Bobby’s wrists together behind the wooden chair in the middle of the room. Bobby’s legs are secured to the chair by an elastic cord. He’s surrounded by Molly, Big Pete, and the two men who’d been sitting on either side of him at the bar, Scotty and the Giants jersey guy. Two guns are pointed at Bobby’s head. Bobby now realizes it was no coincidence that the only empty bar stool he could find was wedged between these two goons. It was a trap. They knew he’d be comin’ in today.

Molly breaks the silence. “Been watchin’ ya for over twenty years now, Kehan. Ever since ya ran off to Manchester when your own parents kicked ya out a’ the house an’ the Ulsters told ya to get lost. We knew ya’d find me and come lookin’ for revenge one day. Troubles’re over but we still got a network that stretches all the way across the pond to our little enclave here in New York. We had eyes on ya the second your feet hit the tarmac at JFK two days ago, Bobby-boy.”

Bobby stares back at her. “But why Denny?” he says. “I know he hung around with the Murphy boys sometimes, but it was just through William Moore. He ’n Willie went way back to primary school together, but Denny wasn’t—”

Molly shakes her head with a mix of pity and contempt. “Ya really didn’t know, did ya? Your brother was no choirboy, Bobby. He ran with the Shankill Butchers, stone fuckin’ killers.” She nods to Big Pete, who hands her a large envelope. She removes a few old photos and shows them to Bobby. The images depict dead bodies, faces bruised and throats cut deeply across the neck, the horror captured in stark detail. “Police photos, got ’em from a contact inside the RUC. Most a’ those lads were with us, but some had nothin’ to do with the IRA or the cause. Hell, some were even Proddies in the wrong place at the wrong time. Murphy didn’t care – he was a lunatic, a bloody psychopath. Look at those cuts – straight through the neck ’til he hit the spine. Almost cut their heads clean off. The Butchers weren’t soldiers, Bobby. They were fuckin’ serial killers.”

“But that was the Murphys and a few others, not Denny!” Bobby protests.

“For fuck’s sake, Bobby,” Molly says in disbelief. “I don’t know if Denny ever slashed a throat but he sure as hell was there. He was died-in-the-wool UVF, and a Butcher. They all were. Moore got ’em the knives ’n guns, Denny was the explosives man – learned his trade with the Rangers. Johnny Murphy took over the unit when Lenny went to the Maze in ’77.” She stares him down with piercing eyes. “Can’t believe ya didn’t know this.”

Bobby goes silent while Molly places another photo on his lap. This one shows a much-younger Molly, in her early twenties, with a handsome, smiling young man in a plaid flannel shirt. Molly nods down at the photo, a slight hitch in her voice. “That was my fiancée, Declan. Killed in a pub off the Lower Falls Road back in ’73. By an Ulster bomb. That’s when I joined the cause.”

Bobby closes his eyes.

“The Provos had girls planted at Mooney’s, White’s an’ even ole Kelly’s Cellars most every Friday ’n Saturday night. Your brother’d been spotted takin’ girls outta those pubs every weekend. Made himself a target. That’s why we were at Mooney’s that night. Denny was quite the ladies’ man when he wasn’t killin’ taigs as you call us.”

After a long silence, Bobby looks up at Molly, his voice steady but bitter. “So now ya got me here. Ya killed my brother, an’ now ya got me. So what happens next, Molly?” He pauses, challenging her. “Or is it Gracie? Or maybe some other name altogether?”

“Molly. That’s my name. Gracie was just the name I used back when I was workin’ for the cause.”

Molly points to a small TV in a corner of the room. “Tommy puts his TVs everywhere in this place so he don’t miss even a minute of his games,” she chuckles. On the screen, the Giants have the ball at the Eagles’ 45-yard line for a third and five with just twenty-three seconds left on the clock. “Will ya look at that, Bobby?” Molly says, eyes fixed on the TV. “Just twenty-three seconds left for the Giants to score.” She looks back at Bobby. “And no timeouts.”

They all watch the TV quietly as the Giants manage just a two-yard run on third down, leaving them at fourth and three on the Eagles’ 43-yard line with the clock ticking down to fifteen seconds. The Giants’ field goal unit sprints onto the field to attempt a 55-yard field goal to tie the game. They barely get the snap off as the game clock ticks down to zero, but the kick is good, splitting the uprights and tying the game at 30-30. The upstairs bar crowd erupts into a loud, deafening cheer as their beloved Giants send the game to overtime.

Molly smiles. “Never know what’s gonna happen in sports, do ya? Goin’ to overtime, anyone’s game now.” She turns back to Bobby, her tone more contemplative. “Sports are like life in many ways, aren’t they Bobby? So many things are just a matter a’ chance, random circumstance, that can alter the course of a game. Even change the entire outcome. Some things the players can control, some things they just can’t.”

“S’pose so,” Bobby says quietly.

Molly reflects for a moment, then speaks. “So what happens now, y’ask? Well Bobby, we were just gonna kill ya down here and clean up the mess. But now I’m thinkin’ why don’t we leave it to chance? Just like the ballgame up there. Just like your brother Denny killed by the IRA after goin’ to the pub for a few pints with his mates. Just like my own Declan killed by a UVF bomb, maybe even one that was set by your dear departed brother.” She walks up to Bobby’s chair and leans down to look him straight in the eye, her breath hot against his face. “It’s all just a matter a’ chance, ain’t it, Bobby Kehan?”

Bobby holds her stare but says nothing.

“So I’ll tell ya what, Bobby. We’ll make it simple for ya. Giants win, you live. Eagles win, you die in that chair. That’s what happens now, t’answer your burnin’ question.” Molly looks back at the others. “So whattaya say, boys? A fine way to enjoy the rest a’ the ballgame?” She looks back at Bobby with a grin. “Loosen up, Kehan, it’ll be fun. Nothin’ better’n a close game that goes down to the wire, not knowin’ who’s gonna win an’ who’s gonna lose.”

As the captains of each team jog out to midfield for the overtime coin toss, Scotty grabs beers from a case against the basement wall and hands them around to the others. They all watch as the Giants win the toss and elect to defend. Then the clock begins to tick down. Both teams struggle to move the ball, trading possessions back and forth. Halfway through the overtime period, neither team has scored and they’ve only managed two first downs between them – both defenses playing surprisingly well after having allowed sixty total points in the first four quarters. Throughout the overtime period, Molly and the others watch the game with amusement and good-natured chatter, working their way through a case of beer. Bobby sits quietly in his chair, ropes biting into his wrists as he awaits his fate.

At the two-minute warning, Bobby interrupts their banter, his voice breaking through the haze of excitement. “I gotta take a leak. Ya took my gun, so I’m unarmed. Ya can even send one a’ your boys to the toilet with me if ya want.”

Molly looks over at Big Pete, who shrugs back at her. She turns to Bobby and says, “Fine, but y’ain’t goin’ upstairs. Take an empty bottle into the corner over there.” Turning back to Pete, she says, “Untie the wanker and give ’im an empty ta’ piss into. And keep your gun on ’im the whole fuckin’ time.”

Big Pete unties Bobby from the chair while the others look on with a mix of curiosity and amusement. When Bobby stands up, Pete grabs him by the arm and walks him into a corner of the basement behind a stack of crates. He looks at Bobby with a smirk. “Sure as hell made a mistake comin’ back here, Kehan. An’ I was always told you’re the smart one a’ the family.”

“Actually you’re the one who made a mistake, Pete.”

“Oh yeah? An’ how’s that?”

“For thinkin’ I’d show up here with only a .38 snub-nose. Denny taught me more’n how to kick a football, mate.” Catching Big Pete by surprise, Bobby opens his black wool overcoat and places a finger on a small device attached to his belt.

Pete’s eyes widen as realization dawns.

“I may not be the smartest one in my family,” Bobby says with a glint in his eye. “But I’m sure as fuck the smartest one in this room. Ya let me down here without even a pat-down, ya stupid fuckin’ taig.” He looks up at the ceiling as his eyes grow moist, then close forever. “See ya soon, Denny.”

Twenty miles northeast of Giants Stadium, where a heated NFL division rivalry heads to the end of overtime, five kilos of Semtex blow up the basement of Finnegan’s Pub, killing four former IRA volunteers and the brother of a notorious UVF bomber. Bricks, debris and body parts blast up into the bar and out onto the street as the floor caves in, killing another three and injuring a dozen more. The pub’s owner, a former IRA brigade commander responsible for hundreds of murders in Northern Ireland over the past fifty years, survives the blast.

Throughout New York and Philadelphia and the rest of the country, faithful fans of both teams watch the game anxiously from the edge of their seats, with the score tied and less than a minute left on the clock.

And no timeouts.